Temple of Doom

It is dark and it is late and I want a quiet whiskey to massage away the night’s chill. I dig my hands into my pockets and put my head down against the wind and I walk along Lighthouse Avenue. The Bulldog is chocker and loud and every seat is taken by a person whose revelry my presence will only sour. Across the street, someone spills from the door of Segovia’s and as the door yawns I hear glass breaking and I hear roaring laughter and I decide I want no part of any of it.

The last bar on the block is The Raven.

Lit only by candles and a glowing fire at the center of the room, the Raven is dark and it is grimy and it is warm. Thick and irregular slabs of wood serve as tables. I sit beside the fire and I wait for someone to take my order.

No one comes.

I approach the bar. An ancient drunk looks at me and he shakes his head and he cocks a thumb over his left shoulder.

Burly men are gathered around a single table. They are shouting and they are exchanging money. The table is cluttered with empty shot glasses. There is a huge man seated at one end of the table, and a pretty, wispy brunette at the other.

The ancient drunk at the bar nudges me and he mutters, “…s’the owner. Dat gerrl over t’are.”

The huge man drinks and he smiles and places his shot glass on the table. The pretty and wispy brunette wipes droplets of sweat from her forehead and she closes her eyes. The burly men cheer and they laugh and money begins to pass from fist to fist.

“Pistole!” the brunette cries. “Pistole.” She plucks a shot from a tray and she puts it to her lips. The men have grown silent. I idly recall that “pistole” means “wait” in an obscure Nepalese dialect and I look at my watch and I wonder when the hell I am going to be served.

The brunette is ignoring me and she downs the shot in a single swallow. On her face is defiance. The crowd erupts. Cash is changing hands again.

The huge man reaches for another shot. The glass looks small and absurd in his enormous grip. He drinks. He smiles. He slumps over.

I think I am finally going to get my whiskey. I am wrong.

The men disperse and The Raven is nearly empty. I walk up to the pretty and wispy brunette and I say, “Hello.”

She is wringing her hands and she is chuckling. “I always knew some day you’d come walking back through my door,” she says. “I never doubted that. Something made it inevitable. So what are you doing here?”

I begin to say that I only wanted a whiskey. The brunette slaps me and she says, “I’ve learned to hate you in the last ten years.”

“You must be mistaking me for someone el—“

“I was a child. I was in love. It was wrong and you knew it! This is my place! Now get out!”

I have no clue as to what she is talking about.

As I leave I rub the sting from my jaw and I am passed by a man in a dark suit. I hear the brunette tell him that the bar is closed and I hear the man say “We are …we are not thirsty.” It seems to me that something decidedly unpleasant is about to happen and I find myself trying to give a shit.

I don’t.